


The Adventure of the Swinging Hips

by susandwrites



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AND SOME SEX, Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Car Sex, Dancing, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Imagines, Light BDSM, M/M, Music, OTP Feels, Public Sex, Switching, Top John, Top Sherlock, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-07-29 19:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16271033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susandwrites/pseuds/susandwrites
Summary: John has impeccable taste in music and Sherlock has a habit of swinging his hips without notice. So John decides to conduct his own experiment on those hips with the use of a carefully-curated playlist.





	1. Love Me Do

**Author's Note:**

> I actually made the playlist in my head on Spotify. https://open.spotify.com/user/o5gctpu8pqewvie07zbehvwbd/playlist/6PxIpjuiiUMp8erh22MDhX?si=WqrGflzaQ_aoeWxPa28WFQ

John was conducting an experiment. 

 

Now, you might think this is a bit odd, as Sherlock is generally the one microwaving body parts and mixing chemical concoctions. But this was very important scientific research and, as Sherlock was busy with a case, it fell to John to collect the data.

 

It was, in fact, very similar to an experiment John had conducted in grade four, the objective of which was to determine if soybeans would grow at different rates when exposed to different genres of music. Sherlock did not need to grow any more and, in fact, John wished he wouldn’t. He was currently the perfect height. But he did have a very interesting reaction to different genres of music and John was very keen on his observations of the dressing gown-clad bean-pole in their sitting room.

 

As every piece of music which had been composed after 1895 was new Sherlock, there was ample material for the experiment. Nothing which was not suited perfectly for his violin was, in Sherlock's opinion, a complete waste of time. John vehemently disagreed, but that was usual for the two of them. But when Sherlock was working, he hardly heard what John was playing about the flat, it merely washed over him like the passing of daylight or the need for sustenance. But the reason John was conducting this experiment in the first place was that he had noticed something a long time ago about Sherlock that had kept him looking for years, even through his strictly "not gay" phase.

 

Sherlock danced.

 

Sherlock danced all the time, really. He danced about the flat, he danced about the crime scene, he danced about the morgue. He had even taught John to dance for his own wedding, something which John now sincerely wished he could undo because Sherlock surely felt very used. But nearly each and every movement made by the tall, lithe detective was a dance, a sway, a swish, his hips somehow always moving at a different pace than the rest of his body.

 

This left John curious as to which types of music would elicit which types of dancing. So he put together a playlist of songs he liked and songs he thought Sherlock would like and he set about testing Sherlock's hips.

 

No sooner had the harmonica started wailing did Sherlock still over his motions in the kitchen-cum-laboratory and cock his head questioningly. _"Love, love me do. You know I love you."_ The song had already elicited a toe-tap from John, who pretended to be reading, but Sherlock made quite an uncomfortable face.

 

"What on earth is that sound?"

 

"The Beatles." John looked up casually and smiled with confusion and amusement as Sherlock continued to shake his head as if trying to escape a bad smell.

 

"What beetles? Why do they sound like that?"

 

John laughed. "No - the Beatles - the band." Sherlock stared blankly at him. "The Beatles, Sherlock, the most famous British band of all time?"

 

"Never heard of them." Sherlock shrugged and returned to his beakers. But after a moment, he stopped and turned to look at John again. "Make it stop - they have a terrible tonal quality. Haven't these people ever heard of harmonizing?" John was nearly indignant, but lowered the volume and changed the track via the bluetooth connection between his phone and speaker. For a few minutes, John played something else, some classical something-or-other, and Sherlock was quiet.

 

Then… _"Penny Lane there is a barber sharing photographs…"_

 

Sherlock's head began to nod casually as he worked and the furrow between his brows softened. "This is a much better group, John, thank you." John smirked into his newspaper.


	2. Starman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, Sherlock is very into glam rock.

John would come to several interesting conclusions during the course of this experiment, the first of which was this: Sherlock was very into glam rock.

 

The first time John noticed Sherlock's increased response to glam rock was when they were at Bart's. Molly had the radio turned down low and had gone to fetch everyone a cup of coffee, despite John's insistence that she did not need to serve them, and Sherlock was swanning around the morgue. While examining the corpses of three triplets who had died after having their eyes, ears, and tongue removed (respectively), John noticed Sherlock's body moving in a more unified manner. As his hips gyrated gently to the rhythm of Starman by David Bowie, his torso responded in kind, and his slim body practically undulated as he moved from table to table with his magnifier. Interesting.

 

Later that evening, when Sherlock was spread out on the sofa in his classic thinking pose - head barely propped up, fingers steepled under his chin, lips pursed - John decided to test Sherlock's liking of David Bowie again. On a low volume, he queued up Space Oddity and took up his chair to observe Sherlock's reaction.

 

After a few seconds of soft guitar, Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose and his eyelids drooped shut. His hands were still pressed against his lips, so he wasn't asleep, but he was visibly calmer. His eyebrows unfurrowed and his breathing became uncharacteristically calm and even. It almost seemed as if he was meditating. Then he elicited a deep hum in the back of his throat - John was utterly fascinated. How could the same artist elicit such completely different reactions? Before he could think too long about it, Sherlock took another deep breath and opened his eyes.

 

"I've got it." His voice was soft and calm, not shouty or abrasive.

 

"That didn't take long," John commented.

 

"I know," Sherlock said, almost confused, as he sat up on the couch and stared over at John. "My mind seems strangely clear." He stood and straightened his shirt before leaning down to give John a swift peck on the lips. "Let's go and tell Lestrade."

 

John liked Space Oddity Sherlock.

 

\---

 

The problem with David Bowie - which wasn't really a problem as far as John was concerned, but for the experiment it was - was that his work was too varied. Rockabilly, glam, psychedelic, electronic, dance - the list went on and on. Honestly, it was hardly a wonder that Sherlock Holmes, a tall, thin, strangely-beautiful, high-minded, well-dressed free-thinker would be into such a unique and cerebral artist as David Bowie. But for the purposes of observing Sherlock's dancing hips, Bowie would be difficult. And much to John's general upset, Sherlock did not like Suffragette City. So John decided to test individual genres, starting with glam rock.

 

He turned to the soundtrack to a film he had liked for years, Velvet Goldmine. Really, he had wasted so much time pretending to be completely straight. Anyway, the soundtrack contained so many examples of glam rock that were not David Bowie, and John needed to see if it were the genre or the artist that Sherlock was responding to.

 

Sherlock was in the kitchen when Hot One started, perched on a barstool and typing at lightening speed on his blog - a post about the different residues left behind by the soles of several popular types of trainers - and his head and shoulders immediately began to sway to the easy piano rhythm. He did type a smidge faster, but other than that, there was no real reaction.

 

By the time 20th Century Boy began, Sherlock had moved to the bookshelves and was practically twisting about the sitting room. His hips rolled round and round, his chest following just behind in a smooth and very attractive wave. Watching him undulate from shelves to desk, John found his mouth going a little dry. As he considered the papers and books in front of him, the fingers of Sherlock's hand found their way to his chest and started elegantly tapping out the quick beat against his exposed sternum. Similar movements followed through The Ballad of Maxwell Demon, but things got really interesting during Baby's on Fire.

 

Actually, John ended up getting in the way of the experiment during Baby's on Fire. Something about the song had always infused John with a heady feeling, a want to… well, to fuck, honestly. And seeing Sherlock writhe about the room before him like some sort of unknowing exotic dancer just put him over the edge. So John stood from his chair, grabbed Sherlock's hand, and pulled him toward the bedroom, intent on seeing exactly what those hips could do.

 

They could do a lot. As John pulled Sherlock down into a surprised kiss, they pressed against his own with a practiced fervor. Even though John had pulled him away from his work, Sherlock did not appear upset. Those hips took control, leading John backward to the bed as their tongues danced in their mouths. Those hips submitted to John's as he flipped them over so that Sherlock was on his back and his legs wrapped around John's waist. Those hips snapped up as John plunged his cock into Sherlock's willing flesh and the pulsing rhythm of the music seemed to swim around them.

 

And they pressed firmly against John's as the two of them lay together, panting in the late-afternoon sunlight shining on the black sheets. John let out a long breath through pursed lips, trying to calm his heart rate, and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, slightly damp with sweat. They had come to Tumbling Down, and it seemed a very appropriate soundtrack to their easy dozing.


	3. Kashmir

They were driving when John decided to test Sherlock on classic rock - a personal favorite of John's. He plugged his phone into the auxiliary port in the car's radio as Sherlock merged onto the M4 on their way to Plymouth. Someone had contacted Sherlock from the Royal Citadel when they had found a severed head in one of the cannons and it was at least an Eight.

 

John loved a good road trip - he always had. And being in the car for a few hours at a time always made him a little nostalgic. Growing up, he had listened to countless hours of classic rock - of course, it wasn't classic at the time. It was just rock. Sure, The Kinks and the best of The Ramones were a little before his time. But Blue Oyster Cult, Jefferson Airplane, The Rolling Stones and their ilk were the soundtrack of his youth.

 

Sherlock didn’t respond to _Don’t Fear the Reaper_ , but neither did he reject it as he had the earlier music of the Beatles. John let it play out, nodding his head and singing under his breath. God, what a great song. He continued to drive in relative stillness through _White Rabbit_ and _You Really Got Me_.

 

John was a little surprised. Sherlock usually wasn't quite this subdued. He wasn't tapping his fingers or talking incessantly. He was merely staring out at the road ahead of him, his jaw set with determination and thought. Odd. Oh well. They couldn't all be winners. John turned his gaze back out to the passing countryside.

 

"What are you doing?" Sherlock's voice drew him out of his reverie.

 

"Hmm?"

 

"With your hands there?" John glanced down - his hands were his hands. He wasn't doing anything.

 

"I don't -"

 

"You were twitching your fingers all over the place against your thighs," Sherlock replied. "And flapping the left one up and down. Are you having some sort of fit?"

 

John instantly felt his cheeks redden. "Oh, um… just, playing a little air guitar, I guess." He tucked his hands between his knees and pulled his lower lip inward, trying to abate his embarrassment.

 

"But you don't play the guitar," Sherlock's tone was genuinely confused.

 

"I know, I was just… enjoying the music."

 

"By pretending to play an instrument with which you have no experience?"

 

"Not _no_ experience." Sherlock turned his head to stare at John for a dangerous length of time. "Eyes on the road."

 

Eyes forward, Sherlock said, "You never mentioned playing the guitar."

 

"I don't really play. Not anymore," John answered. "Clarinet wasn't cool enough for the girls in grade eight, so I started learning the guitar."

 

"And were you any good?"

 

"Not bad." John smirked as he saw Sherlock's eyebrow go up with interest. "The girls certainly liked it - nimble fingers." John danced those same fingers along the collar of Sherlock's coat and gleaned a small grin.

 

"You don't have to tell me." Swiftly turning his head, Sherlock caught the tip of John's middle finger between his teeth. He playfully ran the tip of his tongue around the first knuckle and John's breath hitched. How did he do that? Take a perfectly innocent moment and make it so incredibly sensual? It hardly mattered - John loved it.

 

John reveled in the rush that went through his abdomen and placed his thumb against Sherlock's lower lip, running it along the full flesh until Sherlock opened his mouth. Taking John's thumb into his warm mouth, he sucked lightly and John groaned.

 

That was it. John decided right then that he wanted Sherlock's cock in his hand - in his mouth - sucking him with far more enthusiasm than Sherlock was giving to his fingers. Reaching down, he undid his safety belt and shifted in his seat so that he could reach Sherlock’s fly with his left hand.

 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, surprised.

 

“Make your deductions, detective.” John leaned up and placed a kiss at the sharp corner of Sherlock’s jaw as his fingers swiftly undid the button and zipper of his expensive satin trousers. He always wore such expensive clothes and John reveled in the chance to ruin them whenever possible.

 

“This doesn’t seem terribly safe, doctor,” Sherlock said, his voice having dropped lusciously.

 

“Just keep your eyes on the road.” John took a gentle grip of Sherlock’s bulge, deliciously wrapped in satin pants which were warm from his body heat. He kneaded softly at Sherlock’s crotch and the taller man cleared his throat. Pressing the cruise control button, Sherlock reached down and found the lever to move his seat backward, affording John more - ahem- head room. One hand on the wheel in a remarkably sexy posture, Sherlock dropped his other arm over John’s shoulders as he bent forward and extracted Sherlock’s magnificent erection from his clothes.

 

Leaning down, John started with one small lick, barely a brush of his tongue against Sherlock’s tip, and was rewarded with a stuttering breath from above him. His eyes were fixed ahead of him, but Sherlock was struggling to focus. John smirked and took him in even further, his hand working at the base.

 

His fingers pressed into the soft-hard flesh of Sherlock’s shaft as if he were finding notes on the fretboard. Dancing up and down, the digits pressed and released in rhythm with the radio, eliciting a deep groan from the detective. With one last strong, cheek-hollowing suck, John pulled off and replaced his left hand with his right. He dropped his left hand down to Sherlock’s warm balls, pulsing with arousal, and tickled.

 

Sherlock moaned and strained against the confines of the drivers seat, stretching his long legs as far as he could and flexing his hips. There wasn’t enough room for Sherlock to spread his thighs like he so clearly wanted, no room for John to dance his fingers back against his perineum and press into his tight hole. John reached back as far as he could, rolling Sherlock’s balls in his palm as his other hand worked furiously on his shaft. Sherlock looked absolutely  gorgeous, chest heaving against his silk dress shirt, tongue flicking out to wet his dry lips, cheeks flushed with arousal. John’s hips twitched at the decadent sight before him.

 

Leaning upward, John ran his tongue along Sherlock’s neck, tracing the jumping tendons of his throat. With a heady breath in Sherlock’s ear, he said, “Pull over. Now.”

 

“God, yes,” Sherlock groaned and the deep timbre of his voice sent a shock straight to John’s prick.  

 

Sherlock steered the car off the road and into a patch of gravel on the shoulder, swiftly throwing it into park. With all due haste, Sherlock lowered the driver’s seat to give himself room to lay backward. He shoved his trousers down past his knees as John quickly undid his own, awkwardly toeing off his boots and pulling off his jeans and pants within the limits of his seat. He clambered over the console and placed one leg in either side of Sherlock’s. Gripping the wheel for balance, John gasped as Sherlock spread his arse cheeks before licking his long fingers and pressing hastily against John’s entrance.

 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John nearly whined, pressing backward and down against those slim fingers. “Now, I’m good, just -”

 

His voice checked off as Sherlock grabbed his hips and pulled him roughly down onto his throbbing cock. John wanted so badly to spread his legs, to lean forward on his hands and knees and rut back against Sherlock. But as the sting from the rough entry subsided and Sherlock began to thrust upward into him, John’s eyes rolled backward at the incredibly tight sensation. God, it was already amazing.

 

With a sudden stroke of genius, John reached over and threw the volume up on the radio. As _Kashmir_ by Led Zeppelin began to play, the heavy bass and rough guitar notes vibrated through the car. Sherlock’s long fingers reached up and under John’s shirt, nails grazing his nipples and extracting a moan from the doctor in his lap. He gripped John’s shoulders and pulled him backward to lay back to chest.

 

John could feel the music thrumming through the car, through Sherlock’s body and into his own. “Jesus, Sherlock... so good...”

 

“John…” Sherlock moaned as John reached his hands up and twisted his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. He pulled John hard against him and but down on his shoulder, burying his cock impossibly deeper as he came into John’s willing body. As he rode out his own orgasm, Sherlock reached down and took a firm grip on John’s dripping erection. He came with an obscene shout before relaxing his entire body against Sherlock’s.

 

After a moment, Sherlock swallowed and asked, “What got into you?”

 

John huffed. “You did.” Sherlock’s laugh rumbled through him and soon they were giggling ridiculously, a pile of half-dressed limbs in the drivers seat of a rental car.

 

So Sherlock didn’t care one way or the other about classic rock. And John may have ruined this particular trial in his overall experiment.

 

Worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I typed most of this chapter on my phone so please look for edits. ❤️


	4. Feeling Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *A little BDSM ensues, Top!John*
> 
> Sherlock was dancing. 
> 
> Not like he usually danced, unknowingly around the room as he was lost in thought. This was very different.
> 
> Sherlock was writhing against a man in a pair of unforgivingly-tight leather trousers, their hips moving backward and forward in tandem. John had never seen Sherlock move like that. He had felt him move like that, when they were naked and in bed, but had never watched from a distance. Sherlock was practically straddling the stranger's muscular thigh as his hips rolled in rhythm with the music. He had removed his jacket and his crisp white dress shirt was clinging to his muscular chest with sweat. He was gorgeous and completely enthralling. In all of John's days he would never have imagined seeing Sherlock Holmes, the poshest man he knew, grinding in a dark nightclub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a little long, but man did I enjoy writing it! Hope you like reading it!

"Probably good we didn't bring Rosie along on this one," Sherlock said.

 

"Yeah, I'd say so." John blinked at the scene before them, his mouth hanging open.

 

Their investigation had taken an unexpected turn when their missing person's neighbor confessed to a casual sexual relationship. This wouldn't be anything too out of the ordinary, except that the two of them frequented a special members-only club in Brixton, where John and Sherlock found themselves staring out onto a sea of writhing flesh and leather.

 

“Close your mouth, John,” Sherlock said casually over the thumping music. “You look like a surprised carp.”

 

His mouth snapped shut and he cleared his throat.

 

“I guess we’d better get, ah, looking then,” John said, trying not to be awkward.

 

“Let’s be quick about it. I’ll take the left, you go around the right and we’ll meet back up at those sofas in the back.” Sherlock straightened his shoulders and his suit jacket before taking off into the crowd.

 

John stared out into the club and every glance offered some new sinful experience to witness. People were doing everything from undulating in the dance floor to blow-jobs in the corner to a full-scale orgy in a large conversation pit. There was all manner of leather and satin and feathers and chains and suddenly, John’s plain denim jeans felt simultaneously very vanilla and very tight.

 

The bar was in his prescribed pathway, so he took out the photo of their missing person from his coat pocket and headed toward the line of people vying for drinks. He didn't see the victim in the crowd, so he pushed his way to the bar and flagged down the woman serving. She was wearing a tighter-than-tight black leather dress that barely passed her buttocks.

 

"What can I get for you?" she asked, leaning over the bar to better hear John and her ample breasts very nearly spilled out onto the black acrylic surface. Her tongue slipped out over her bottom lip and John watched as her barbell piercing _clacked_ against her teeth.

 

"Whiskey neat," John shouted over the thumping music. She smiled and proceeded to pour his drink and John placed the photo on the counter. "Tell me, have you seen this man anytime recently?"

 

Dropping his glass down in front of him, she said, "You a cop?"

 

"Sort of." He took up the glass but didn't drink just yet. "This man - James Martino - he's been missing for three days. His neighbor says they come here sometimes to… play."

 

The bartender took the photo and gave it a good look, but shook her head, raising one pierced eyebrow in an apologetic expression. "Sorry, love. I don't think I've ever seen him." John took the photo and reached for his wallet, but the woman waved him off. "Don't worry about it - I hope you find your man." John nodded his thanks and took a sip of his whiskey. The bartender winked at him and said, "Try to have some fun while you're here, Daddy."

 

John raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" Her eyes raked over his conservative outfit and she smiled salaciously.

 

"If you can't find someone to undo those buttons for you, you know where to find me." With that, she moved to her next customer and John turned away from the bar. He couldn't help but grin. Just a little.

 

John worked his way through the crowd, occasionally showing the photo to someone who wasn't tied up or engaged in some other sexual activity. But the drink in his hand and the heavy bass of the club music made it hard to concentrate. From every side, people were bumping up against him as they writhed and rutted and fucked. His cock was hardening and his head was buzzing. He was quite enjoying this club.

 

Sherlock wasn’t in the lounge area, so John found a seat that was free of bodies and committed to finishing his drink. Next to him on the sofa was a woman in nothing but a black latex bra, sprawled out with her hands in the hair of a man knelt between her knees. His body was crossed with several leather straps all converging at his cock, which was trapped in a metal cage. He was lapping at the woman’s vagina like a dog, his cock leaking and untouched.

 

John shifted in his seat and forced his gaze away, unsure of the protocol for watching. His hand fell down to his own crotch and he adjusted his erection. Where was Sherlock? He wanted to get him home. Now.

 

His mouth fell open again. Sherlock was dancing. 

 

Not like he usually danced, unknowingly around the room as he was lost in thought. This was _very_ different.

 

Sherlock was writhing against a man in a pair of unforgivingly-tight leather trousers, their hips moving backward and forward in tandem. John had never seen Sherlock move like that. He had _felt_ him move like that, when they were naked and in bed, but had never watched from a distance.  Sherlock was practically straddling the stranger's muscular thigh as his hips rolled in rhythm with the music. He had removed his jacket and his crisp white dress shirt was clinging to his muscular chest with sweat. He was gorgeous and completely enthralling. In all of John's days he would never have imagined seeing Sherlock Holmes, the poshest man he knew, grinding in a dark nightclub.

 

But he was also dancing with another man and John felt his temper beginning to rise. Sherlock was speaking into the man’s ear over the loud club remix of… yes, that _was_ Nina Simone. John could tell from the set of his eyebrows that he was interrogating the stranger, but he still didn’t like how close they were.

 

He especially didn’t like it when the man gripped the back of Sherlock’s neck and shoved his tongue down his throat. John leapt to his feet and dropped his empty glass on the thick carpet. Before he even realized it, he was marching across the dance floor and had pulled a very shocked Sherlock away from his assailant.

 

Sherlock instantly took a step behind John as he faced off with the stranger. “What the fuck are you doing?”

 

“We was just dancing and I fancied a snog is all,” the man said. He was easily six inches taller than John and rather fit.

 

“‘Were’,” Sherlock corrected over the music. The shirtless man was indignant at Sherlock’s cheek.

 

“You can’t just kiss my husband like that.” John's chin jutted forward and he felt very much that he would like to hit this man.

 

“Hey, he came on to me - he wanted it,” the man said forcefully, stepping closer to tower over John. He did not back down.

 

“No, I didn’t!” Sherlock exclaimed, affronted. “John, I didn’t-”

 

“I know, love,” John said, putting up a hand. Sherlock fell silent as John straightened his shoulders and drew himself up to his fullest height. Despite his smaller stature, John could be very imposing when he wanted to. Tightening his jaw and narrowing his eyes, John put on his Captain voice. “If you so much as look at my husband again, I will make you regret having drawn breath this morning.” The man took a moment to size John up, then decided against an altercation. He put up his hands in surrender and walked away.

 

“John, I -”

 

“And just what in the hell were you thinking, dancing on some strange bloke like that?” John demanded, turning his full authority on Sherlock.

 

“He knows our missing person, John. I was just trying to get information out of him - you know how people always respond better when I’m ‘nice’,” Sherlock said this last with an air of disdain.

 

"Sherlock," John said, trying to swallow his frustration, "you can't _come on_ to people like that and not expect them to respond. Look at you!" He gestured up and down Sherlock's body - his sweat-soaked shirt was almost completely transparent against his muscular chest and his trousers were always about a size too small, showing off his magnificent arse and thighs. With his cheeks flushed and his hair even more tousled than usual, John thought he looked ready to be thoroughly debauched.

 

"I do what I have to do to-" John very abruptly cut him off by slapping him across this face. Not very hard, but enough to shut him right up. And hard enough to cause his eyes to darken with what John instantly recognized as lust.

 

"Go," John said, pointing toward the couches.

 

"I don't th-" John slapped him again and Sherlock let out a short, low moan.

 

With a finger in Sherlock's face, John threatened, "One more word, Sherlock, and you'll regret it."

 

Sherlock looked as though he were considering one more word, but licked his lips and nodded instead. Turning on his heel, he stalked toward the sofas, found a relatively unoccupied stretch of furniture, and tossed his jacket onto the seat. He held out his hand to take John's coat and when it was carefully deposited on the sofa, Sherlock faced John and placed his hands obediently behind his back.

 

To his right, John saw a wall of equipment - whips, chains, cat-o-nine-tails, the whole gamut. They had dabbled in the past with control and dominance and more than a little bondage, but never in a public forum. John found he quite liked the idea of strangers witnessing him assert his control over this unbelievable man, and his eyes landed on something he knew would arouse Sherlock to no end. He stretched out his left hand and took hold of the black leather riding crop.

 

Sherlock's shiver was visible as John adjusted his grip on the handle, his fingers coiling deliciously around the smooth leather. John took the few remaining steps to close the distance between them, staring up at Sherlock with their chests almost touching. Sherlock's pupils were blown wide and John could feel the bass of the club music vibrating between them. His voice firm and even, John said, "Now, Sherlock - we came here on a case. I'm sure you're miles ahead by now, so just tell me: is there anything important? Anything we should take care of before we continue here?"

 

"Not really, no," Sherlock answered causally. Alright then. If no one was in danger, then John was going to enjoy their little break.

 

He placed the tongue of the crop against Sherlock's cheekbone and said, "On your knees." With a sharp _tap_ of the leather against his cheekbone, John added, "And the correct form of address is 'Captain'." Sherlock's eyes slipped closed; John knew how much it aroused Sherlock when he pulled rank.

 

"Yes," Sherlock hissed as the leather grazed the sensitive skin where John had slapped him. "Captain."

 

The word sent a jolt straight to John's groin. He breathed heavily through his nose as Sherlock sank to his knees in front of John, keeping their gaze locked. God, this man. John could never find the right word for him. Fantastic. Genius. Incredible. Gorgeous. Miraculous. His.

 

His. That was the word. For the moment.

 

Running the crop against the other cheek and down to trace Sherlock's full lips, John watched as that long, pale throat swallowed excitedly. With a sharper _crack_ , he snapped the crop across the edge of Sherlock's cheekbone and those full lips fell open with a heavy, decadent sigh. It was quieter near the sofas, the speakers all converging on the dance floor, and John could hear Sherlock's moan mingled with the pulsing music and the overwhelm of sound only served to harden his cock to its fullest.

 

With his hands held behind his back like that, Sherlock's chest strained against his crisp white Oxford shirt and John could see his nipples through the sweat-thinned material. He traced the crop along Sherlock's jawline and down his throat until he reached his sternum. Hesitating for one delicious moment, John lifted the tool in his hand and brought it down swiftly on Sherlock's left nipple.

 

His arousal flamed up as Sherlock arched his back and hissed. John teased the sensitive bud with the crop before sharply flicking it a second time. Another brief pause while Sherlock drew in his lower lip, then John asked, "Do you know why I'm punishing you now, Sherlock?"

 

The detective swallowed dryly before answering, "Because I behaved poorly, Captain."

 

"What did you do?" John dragged the crop across to Sherlock's other nipple and circled teasingly.

 

"I danced with another man, Captain." Anyone else would likely have looked contrite, but Sherlock looked smug. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded and the corner of his full mouth twitched minutely with a suppressed grin. He enjoyed being controlled by John as much as John loved having this self-important bastard on his knees. And he knew what his voice did to John - it sent shivers over his whole body and made John want to fuck him into the carpet without any preamble.

 

But John also knew how much Sherlock enjoyed looking up at John from that angle. He knew that Sherlock loved to be at his mercy, controlled by his more-practiced hand and especially by his commanding tone. John tightened his jaw and glared down at his husband, whose nostrils flared with his heavy-breathing. "It was more than that, and you know it." John slapped Sherlock's right nipple with the crop, harder than he had hit the other one, and Sherlock bit his lip. "Sing out, dear. I want to hear you over the music."

 

Another _smack_ and Sherlock cried out unabashedly. "I writhed against a stranger in a nightclub. I straddled his thigh and ground my cock against him." Another, unforgiving _snap_ \- another decadent moan. "And then he kissed me - he shoved his tongue down my throat because I am a unmitigated slut. _Captain_." he finished with a growl and John had to force himself not to moan himself.

 

"And will you ever do this again?" John trailed the tongue of the crop down Sherlock's sternum and pressed it firmly against the bulge in his bespoke trousers.

 

"Never, Captain," he answered sincerely. John tapped lightly against his erection. Sherlock sucked in a hissing breath and his eyes slipped closed.

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because I belong to you." He opened his eyes and locked his gaze with John's. The doctor shivered at the shock that traveled between them. "Captain."

 

John was achingly hard and he knew Sherlock would be too. So he knew that when he brought back the riding crop and snapped it forward on Sherlock's erection, his reaction would be exquisite. And he was right. Sherlock's entire body tightened as he arched backward with a deep, loud, indulgent moan.

 

"You understand that you still need to be punished?" John asked. Sherlock could only nod, but that wasn't good enough. So John snapped the crop against his prick a second and third time, each one harder than the last, until Sherlock was twitching and crying out. "Answer me!" John snapped.

 

"Yes! Yes, Captain, I need to be taught a lesson." Sherlock licked his lips and his hips twitched violently forward.

 

"Turn around, then."

 

Sherlock did so instantly, twisting on his knees until he was facing the sofa. Looking up from Sherlock for the first time since they had started, John saw other people around them taking notice of their activity. The woman having her pussy licked had even gone so far as to shift herself and her playmate around so that she could face them head-on. She winked at John as he stepped around Sherlock and placed his  denim-clad erection directly in front of his husband's nose. Sherlock's expression had grown hungry as he eyes John's substantial bulge.

 

"Make your apologies, then."

 

"Yes, Captain," Sherlock breathed heavily as his hands flew to John's waistband. He swiftly untucked John's shirt and undid his fly, bringing John's trousers down to his ankles. Sherlock pressed his fingers into the flesh of John's arse in a desperate grip. He buried his nose in John's crotch, still covered by his cotton pants, and _nuzzled_ , breathing deeply of John's scent. John couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped his lips. Sherlock mouthed wetly at John's erection for a moment before shucking his pants as well.

 

John pressed the crop into Sherlock's shoulder and he came away so that John could sit. He arranged himself on the couch and gave Sherlock an encouraging little tap on the cheek. Sherlock took the hint and practically dove on John's throbbing erection.

 

The wet heat of Sherlock's mouth was almost too much - it always was. Sherlock used his mouth for such magnificent deductions and such cutting insults and often for such haughty condescension. It aroused John to no end for Sherlock to expertly use his mouth to suck John's cock. And expertly he did. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked _hard_ at the head before dancing his tongue down the shaft. His tongue slipped out to lap at John's balls, pressing between his testicles to apply a divinely-sinful pressure at the very base of John's erection.

 

For a moment, John forgot himself. As the fingers of his right hand wound painfully-tight into Sherlock's curls, he choked out, " _Fuck_ , Sherlock." Then, as Sherlock licked his way back up his cock, John found his grip on the handle of the crop again. He raised it up and brought it swiftly down on Sherlock's left arse cheek with a satisfying _crack_.

 

Sherlock moaned, open-mouthed and hot, against John's shaft before taking the whole of his length into his throat. His head thrown back in ecstasy, John snapped the crop down again, this time on Sherlock's other cheek. The detective moaned richly around Johns cock before he took a deep breath through his nose and swallowed, the muscles of his throat rippling up and down John's prick.

 

John felt some of Sherlock's hair pop out of their roots, he was gripping so tightly. It felt so marvelous that he was inclined to make Sherlock do it again. So he whipped the crop through the air and brought it down on each of Sherlock's buttocks with unforgiving force. Sherlock groaned harshly before closing his lips and swallowing again, twice.

 

"Jesus, Sherlock, you are a magnificent slut, aren't you?" Sherlock nodded slightly, his mouth being too full to reply, and grunted in assent. John swung the crop down in a swift X formation, catching both of Sherlock's cheeks in rapid succession, but yanked Sherlock's head backward from his cock before he could swallow again. He looked up at John with eyes so full of lust he looked almost sleepy. Or at least, he would, if not for the wet redness of his lips and the panting of his breath. "I am going to take you home and fuck you until you beg for mercy."

 

"Twice?" Sherlock gasped wetly.

 

That earned him a sharp _crack_ across the face. "Don't be so cheeky, dear." Then John leaned forward and delved his tongue into Sherlock's willing mouth. His tongue rolled over Sherlock's, further asserting his ownership, and tasting his own sweat and pre-cum. Finally, he spoke into Sherlock's open mouth, "But yes. Twice." He kissed him again, deep and swift, running his thumbs over the lovely red welts on Sherlock’s face. "God, I wish I could stretch you out - fill you with a plug and make you wear it til we get home." Sherlock gulped and his eyes widened slightly. "But I'm not going to do that - not here. You're mine - not for anyone else to gawk at." Another kiss, Sherlock surrendering his mouth with a soft moan. "And I don't usually carry anal plugs with me, anyway."

 

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. John knew that expression. He was hiding something.

 

"What is it?"

 

"If I may, Captain?" Sherlock brought one hand from where he was gripping John's thighs and gestured toward his trouser pocket. John nodded and he slipped his fingers into the fabric. Sherlock produced something small and black and held it up for John's inspection between his long fingers.

 

"A remote?" It was a single button, no larger than John's thumb, and suddenly he remembered what it was for. "Ooh, you _are_ a clever boy, aren't you?" John ran the pad of his thumb tantalizingly over the button and Sherlock's eyes followed his movements. "You just walk around with a vibrating plug up your arse now, do you?"

 

"I thought you might enjoy it, Captain," Sherlock purred, a grin starting to slide over his face. "I knew we'd be coming here."

 

"How did - it doesn’t matter." John shook his head in disbelief - of _course_ Sherlock had worked it out. And he had brought John here, probably also knowing that this is where they'd end up. The unbelievable tease. How long had he been walking around London with his hole being slowly stretched by that deliciously dirty plug? The idea made John’s cock jump. John took Sherlock's mouth in another searing kiss and pressed the button.

 

Instantly, Sherlock convulsed and his back arched so severely that John thought he might topple over. But topple he did not. Instead, he jerked his hips forward and resumed his vice grip on John's thighs. The plug settled deep in his body was vibrating at a steady rate, but with another press of the remote, it began to pulse. The groan that ripped through Sherlock's throat made John bend forward with his own surge of arousal. He leaned down swiftly and bit hard at the place where Sherlock's neck met his shoulder, right in the place he knew would have Sherlock begging.

 

He was right. "Please, Jo - _Captain_!" Sherlock cried out and John lapped at the raised bite mark. "God, I'm begging you…"

 

"Begging for what?" John murmured and placed another hard bite on Sherlock's neck.

 

"I want you to cum," Sherlock moaned. "I want your cum - _ah_ \- running down my throat, Captain. _Unng_! I'm begging you to fuck my mouth, then take me home and _\- hiss_ \- pound into my arse like the tenacious slut that I am." Sherlock was panting now, writhing against the pressure of the plug, and John thought he might orgasm from those words alone.

 

With both hands in Sherlock's hair, John slid his tongue into Sherlock's open, panting mouth. When he spoke, his voice was rough and thick with arousal. "Sounds like a plan."

 

He leaned back on the sofa and brought Sherlock's mouth back down onto his cock. Sherlock relaxed his throat until John's unforgiving length was fully-seated in that wet heat again. John held him down for a moment until Sherlock's throat began to convulse and his spit fell languidly around John's shaft. Vibrations from Sherlock's moans, the plug, the heavy music, all converged on John's erection and it was glorious. His grip tightened in Sherlock's hair and he began to thrust.

 

Sherlock was nearly gagging, but the force of John's pulsations drew rough groans from deep in this throat. Harder and harder, John pumped his hips upward and pulled Sherlock's head down, but Sherlock did not relent. His cock was hitting the back of Sherlock's throat, hot and wet and with unbelievable suction. _God_ , this man - John sucked in a thick breath through his nose and felt his orgasm beginning to build.

 

He had dropped the crop onto the couch, but he found it again as his arousal spiraled in his abdomen. Running the tongue of the crop down Sherlock's twitching spine, John continued down until the shaft slid between his arse cheeks. Sherlock's hips rolled upward, begging for more, and John obliged. As he pressed as hard as he could on the plug, Sherlock cried out around John's cock and buried his nose at the base. That was it - John came so hard and so long that he thought he might black out. But he focused on the feeling of his cum filling Sherlock's throat, spilling from the corners of his mouth, his tongue writhing against the underside of his shaft and John shouted violently, " _Fuck!_ Yes - Jesus _Fucking_ Christ!"

 

Sherlock did not pull away - he had not been instructed to. But he was pressing hard against his straining erection with one hand, fighting his own orgasm with all his might. He had not been instructed to cum, either. John let out a shaky sigh at the sight of him, so obedient, and finally tapped weakly at Sherlock's head. He came away with a filthy wet _pop_ and let out a whimper before resting his forehead against the inside of John's knee. Sherlock's eyes were clenched tightly shut as he struggled not to grind his hips too hard into his own hand.

 

"Sherlock?" John sat forward and spoke into his husband's ear. He didn't answer, merely sighed and worked his jaw with arousal. "Sherlock."

 

He let out a little _hng_. "Cap-Captain?"

 

John petted Sherlock's ruined hair and licked away a dribbled of cum from the corner of his mouth before saying, "Let's go home." Sherlock nodded weakly and finally opened his eyes. His gaze landed on the remote, discarded casually on the sofa, then he looked questioningly up at John. "Oh, no," John said, an evil grin taking over his face before he kissed Sherlock again. "It stays on."

 

Sherlock whined and his eyes fell closed again, but he nodded, open-mouthed and panting. "Yes, Captain." He licked his lips and took a steadying breath. "It stays on."

 

John swiftly redid his trousers and gestured for Sherlock to stand. Jackets replaced, they both smoothed their clothes and regained their composure. But when Sherlock made to leave, his movements forced the plug, still pulsing, to shift inside his body and he threw out a hand to John. He sucked in a hissing breath, squeezing John's fingers, before finally managing to compose himself. Sherlock threw his shoulders back and walked as properly as possible toward the door, though John grinned to see him walking almost with a limp.

 

It took longer than usual to get home - it seemed as if the traffic was also enjoying Sherlock's torture. He spent most of the ride with his hand gripped tightly around his jaw, breathing heavily into his palm, his leg bouncing impatiently. Twice, John reached into Sherlock's lap and grasped viciously at his cock, causing him to groan loud enough to make the cabbie blush.

 

Up the stairs to their flat, Sherlock remained as composed as possible, even when John slapped his rear end so hard that it stung his hand. John hung up their coats and gestured casually toward Sherlock's bedroom, keeping his cool despite the fact that the cab ride had revived his erection. Sherlock was trying to keep his head upright, to retain some of his dignity. But when John surreptitiously pressed the remote button once more, sending the vibrations into a rapid and unrelenting pulsation, Sherlock actually fell to his knees.

 

He threw his hands out onto the bed to keep his face from hitting the floor and John pulled his head back by his hair. "Don't you _dare_ cum, Sherlock. Not until I tell you to."

 

"Ah.. _hng_ ," Sherlock panted. "Of co-course not, Captain."

 

"Good. Now strip and get onto the bed."

 

Sherlock's hands were shaking as he undressed as swiftly as possible. John followed suit, watching as Sherlock slipped out of his trousers and pants before crawling onto the bed. He knelt on the duvet, his face down and arse in the air, his hands already digging into the blankets. Now completely naked himself, John ambled onto the bed behind Sherlock and gave the perfect globes of his backside a firm squeeze. John traced his finger from between Sherlock's balls and up to his hole, beautifully stretched by the plug, and pinched the toy between his fingers. With his free hand, he finally relented, pressing the button a fourth and final time, stilling the vibrations and Sherlock nearly sobbed as John slowly removed the plug.

 

More for his own pleasure than for Sherlock's comfort, John swooped down and plunged his tongue into Sherlock's open hole, eliciting a shaking moan from the writhing man beneath him. He lapped greedily at Sherlock's opening until he was sufficiently slick before sitting up, tossing the remote aside, and thrusting forcefully into Sherlock's body.

 

The sound that Sherlock let out was unearthly and sent an electric shock directly to John's cock - it was deep, it was loud, it was guttural and raw and John nearly bit through his lip at the sound. Sherlock was rocking as hard as he could back into John's thrusts and he desperately tore at the blankets as John took a firm grip of his hair again. His back curved impossibly far back, Sherlock began to beg again. " _Please_ , Captain! Please - I need to cum! I need to feel you - _ah, fuck_ \- feel you cum inside me, please!"

 

John's own orgasm was building again and he marveled at Sherlock's self-control - he was about to orgasm for the second time in an hour and Sherlock was still holding back. His long, slender length was leaking onto his muscled stomach as John pounded rhythmically into him. At long last, John reached forward to grasp Sherlock's erection in his fist, eliciting a desperate cry, before whispering harshly, "Cum for me, Sherlock. Now."

 

His teeth sank into Sherlock's shoulder as he arched impossibly further back into John's embrace. John twisted his firm grip on Sherlock's erection and ran his thumb over the swollen head just before Sherlock came with surprising force. John did not relent, milking Sherlock's erection for all he was worth as his own orgasm bulleted through his body and into his husband.

 

Sherlock's arms were shaking as John relaxed along the curve of his back, exhausted from his prolonged pleasure. After a brief moment of breath-catching and skin-cooling, John pulled easily out of Sherlock' body and flopped over onto his side, pulling the other man against his chest in a panting embrace. Their breathing eased as John caressed Sherlock's body, his over-sensitive skin jumping under John's soft touch.

 

"I wonder how much a membership to that club costs," John mused, planting tender kisses along Sherlock's neck and shoulders.

 

"Irrelevant," Sherlock replied lazily. "I've already paid for the year."

 

John grinned against Sherlock's skin. "You cheeky bastard."


	5. Sympathique

John wasn't conducting his experiment today. Not on purpose anyway. No, he was cutting the crusts off a peanut-butter sandwich while arguing with Rosie about the difference between _nice_ and _honest_ and fielding text messages from both Lestrade and the surgery. 

The morning had started pleasantly enough. He'd risen before anyone else, gotten a shower while the water was still hot, and put on some bouncy music at a low volume while he folded bath towels. Then all Hell had broken loose. 

Sherlock had announced his awakening with a cry of "Damn him!" as Lestrade texted to inform him of a turn in an ongoing trial. This caused Rosie to wake and begin chanting, "Damn, damn, damn!" as she clambered from her bed. Sherlock had locked himself in the bathroom while John was left to get Rosie ready for the day.

She was in fine form - refusing to get dressed, refusing breakfast, refusing to brush her teeth, refusing to _stop moving for one bleeding moment_. When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, it was to plop himself down in his desk chair with a scowl on his face as John took to making Rosie's lunch before he took her to day-care. 

He was already late for the surgery and had been struggling to corral Rosie for more than thirty minutes before he finally shouted in exasperation, "Sherlock! A little help, please!" 

The dramatic detective was, by this time, spread full-length on the sofa, his nicotine-free electronic cigarette drooping listlessly between two of his long fingers. He was staring up at the ceiling, sighing heavily, and did not look at John when he spoke.

"I cannot help you, John. I am consumed with _ennui_."

Immediately, John wanted to slap him. Ennui, indeed! Didn't he think John would like to be taken up on the couch in a fit of metaphysical angst? But things needed doing and he could really use Sherlock's help - if he could take Rosie to daycare, he might not been too late for the surgery.

"Sherlock, I don't care about your ridiculous French laziness right now. I need you to get Rosie to school," he said firmly. 

Another long, deep sigh. " _Mais, John, je suis à l’ouest._ " 

John gaped at him. 

"What?"

The next sigh was one of utter annoyance - the nerve of him. But he poured off the couch and onto his feet. Still in his pajamas, he pulled on his peacoat and took Rosie's hand. " _Tu casses mes pieds, John_." With that, Sherlock threw open the door and led Rosie out. 

John was left staring at the open doorway, his own coat in his hand. What on earth…? Sherlock only occasionally spoke French when he wasn't speaking to a French person. Sometimes he did it when they were having sex and John found it incredibly erotic. But this was different - as if he couldn't be bothered to speak English today. 

Grabbing up his phone from the coffee table, John finally realized what had caused his husband's translation. The music from earlier was still playing, a randomly-generated selection of music based on his previous song choices.

“ _Je ne veux pas travailler. Je ne veux pas déjeuner. Je veux seulement l'oublier. Et puis je fume._ ”

“Jesus,” John murmured, frustratingly amazed by Sherlock’s very existence. He had absorbed the music like a sponge, the lyrics certainly passing through his mind without notice and implanting this morning’s mood on his brain. And, apparently, selecting a different language option on the way through.

Later, when he’d finally reached the surgery and made his apologies, John took a moment to look up the lyrics (and a translation) of the last song. “ _I don’t want to work. I don’t want to eat lunch. I only want to forget. And, so, I smoke._ ”

What an unbelievable drama queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phrases Sherlock uses translate thusly:
> 
> 1) “I am in the West.” Meaning, “I’m all out of sorts today.”
> 
> 2) “You are breaking my feet.” Meaning, “You are getting on my nerves.”


	6. Love Me Like You Do

"Pass me those blood samples, John." His eye still glued to the microscope in front of him, Sherlock extended his arm and waited. John debated insisting that Sherlock say "please", but decided it would be a lost lesson on him in his current state of focus. He was surprised, though, when he handed the slide-filled tray over and Sherlock said, "Thank you." How considerate.

 

"You're welcome," John replied, finding himself staring at Sherlock. He had put on weight - that was funny. Just a pound or two, but right in the tummy. That would be the result of Rosie's baking lessons with Molly. Sherlock was always eager to critique her latest creation, which made John happy because parenthood had not repaired Sherlock's incredibly uneven eating schedule and food was food.

 

Sherlock was still tremendously fit - that was obvious to anyone with eyes. What most people - even those he would consider friends - didn't know was that Sherlock was a Master in Judo. John had caught him practising once in the middle of the night when Sherlock had accidentally knocked over a lamp. In a fit of self-conciousness, Sherlock had moved his workouts to the cellar that was 221C, despite John's insistence that it was rather attractive.

 

"John?" He blinked and realised that Sherlock had been saying his name several times in an attempt to get his attention. "How long have those soil samples been in with the chemical compound?"

 

John checked his watch and scrunched his face in apology. "Three minutes." Sherlock sighed and shook his head.

 

"Leave them, I have extras. I'll do it later." Git.

 

Still, John had let his mind wander. "Sorry, love."

 

"I know." Sherlock removed the current slide and reached for a second. He took a moment to roll up his sleeves - a look John very much appreciated - and exposed a tract of skin on the inside of his forearm, marred by something John had not noticed before.

 

"Sherlock? What's on your arm?"

 

He glanced down, clearly having forgotten. "Oh. Rosie." He pursed his lips, pretending to be annoyed but actually very amused. "She wanted to 'remind me'," he said with verbal air quotes, "to get her a puppy on the way home." Eyes back on the microscope, he extended his arm to John. He took Sherlock's forearm in hand and turned his head to see a crudely-drawn dog imprinted in thick black marker.

 

"You're not, are you?" Sherlock was silent. Never good. "Sherlock? Have you gotten her a puppy?"

 

Sherlock withdrew his arm and ran his hand along the back of his neck, still not looking up. "No," he said slowly.

 

"But you've picked one out, haven't you?" Sherlock cleared his throat.

 

"… Perhaps…"

 

"Sherlock!" John admonished, but his heart gave a traitorous little flicker.

 

"Research suggests -"

 

"Bugger research, Sherlock, you want a puppy," John interrupted and Sherlock finally made eye contact.

 

"Fine. I want a puppy." He made a tiny shrug as if to say _Are you going to tell me 'no'? Me?_

 

Bastard. Of course, he wasn't going to tell him 'no'.

 

"What's his name?" Sherlock turned back to the microscope.

 

"Arthur." Double bastard. That was adorable. John tried to disguise his grin by turning his head and pursing his lips. "You approve?"

 

With a huff, John replied, "Obviously."

 

Sherlock's cheek lifted in that beautiful, smug, smile and he said no more about it. "John, would you  change the radio station? I can't stand to listen to _sports_ ," he said this last with rolling eyes.

 

John hadn't even realised the radio had been on in the first place. It was a little transistor, high on a shelf by the only window in the lab at Bart's. Molly had strung all number of wires and strings to the antenna to grab a signal, and John was very careful not to disturb the delicate ecosystem as he turned the knobs. He was only able to get a pop radio station - everything else was pure static.

 

"Sorry - no classical today," John said, grabbing up a textbook from a shelf and flipping through, looking for anything new in the world of medical science.

 

"It's fine." Sherlock was back to work, fully-focused. After a moment, John heard something he had never heard before.

 

Sherlock was singing.

 

It was very soft, very low, and very unintentional. But singing, it was. " _You're the light, you're the night. You're the colour of my blood…_ "

 

John turned to stare unabashedly at the back of Sherlock's head. He was murmuring the lyrics as he adjusted the sight on the microscope, completely unaware of the absurdity of his behaviour. Sherlock - Mister "what beetles" - was singing along with Ellie Goulding. John wanted to laugh so badly, but he swallowed it down.

 

Curious, John went back to the radio and slowly turned the volume down.

 

"Oh, no, don't," Sherlock said at once, actually looking up from his work. "I quite like this song."

 

John was agog. "You do?"

 

"Yes. It's rather catchy." Sherlock put away the final slide and made to change tasks - John's failed soil analysis. John turned the volume back up and went to stand beside his husband.

 

"How do you even know this song?"

 

"Molly plays it all the time," he answered with a flip of his elegant hand. "Apparently, it's from some film she quite likes about colour schemes or something."

 

" _Fifty Shades of Grey_?"

 

"That's the one."

 

John felt his eyebrows climbing up his forehead and he nodded, thoroughly amused. "You might even like that movie, Sherlock. It's rather dirty."

 

"Doubtful." That made John chuckle. Yes, doubtful. Even John could see gaping plot and characterisation problems - just imagine Sherlock ripping into the _Fifty Shades_ franchise. "At any rate, I don't care about the context of the song. It's about us."

 

That caused John some confusion.

 

"About you and me?"

 

"That is what 'us' means." John gave him a _look_ and Sherlock made a slightly-apologetic expression. "The lyrics, John. They're about us. A near-perfect expression of our relationship in the form of popular music."

 

Well, wasn't that weirdly sweet? "You think so, love?"

 

"Of course." Sherlock stopped set down his kitchen timer (ensuring that his second batch of soil samples wouldn't be ruined) and looked sincerely up at John from his perch on the metal stool. "'You're the fear, I don't care, 'cause I've never been so high'," he recited. "'I'll let you set the pace 'cause I'm not thinking straight'. That's me for you, John."

 

John felt very much as if his chest might burst as he stared down at the sweet, odd, ridiculous man in front of him. It _was_ rather like them - Sherlock needed so much more than he let on to people. People except John. He needed John to take the lead in all the emotional spaces he had been so afraid to occupy for so long and, yes, sometimes it felt almost dangerous, even to John. To love a person so much. To choose to be with someone who excited and infuriated and cared for and protected and baffled him at every turn. And made him want to do the same.

 

"Of course, the overly-electronic style of the song was difficult to get used to at first, but -"

 

"Stop talking." John grasped Sherlock's face in his hands and took his mouth in a searing kiss. Sherlock responded immediately, opening his legs so John could press against him where he sat on the stool and wrapping his arms around John’s waist. Swirling his tongue expertly against Sherlock’s, John ran his fingers through that mass of black curls and down to his shirt collar. Sherlocks own hands slid into the waistband of John’s jeans and started untucking his jumper.

 

The timer chose that moment to _ding._

 

With a sigh into John’s open mouth, Sherlock murmured, “John… the samples…”

 

“Leave them.” He moved his tongue to Sherlock’s neck, eliciting a groan.

 

“But, John _, oh_ ,” Sherlock’s voice was breathy as John’s fingers finished undoing his buttons and slid expertly over his nipples. “The case… work…”

 

“You’re married to me now,” John reminded him before sucking fiercely at Sherlock’s collarbone. He soothed the raised flesh with a kiss and Sherlock melted - actually physically slumped in John’s arms with a delectable sigh. John slid his hands down Sherlock's ribs to untuck his open shirt before taking a firm grip on the band of his bespoke trousers and spinning him sharply so that his back was against the table. “Work can wait.”

 

Sherlock made a whining sound as John presses harder against him, their still-clothed cocks brushing against one another. But he protested no more. In fact, he lifted his hips slightly so that John could hook his fingers in the band of his trousers and pants and free his cock completely. “What if someone comes in?” Sherlock breathed out.

 

John chuckled against the hot skin of his alabaster throat. “Let them.” He knew it turned Sherlock on to think of someone interrupting them - they’d had several encounters at Bart’s, but the more likely they were to be caught, the more excited it made Sherlock. And, in turn, John. Of course, it wasn't as though there was anyone at the lab who hadn't been a part of the betting pool before they shagged for the first time.

 

Hands pushing Sherlock's trousers to the floor, John licked and nipped at the skin of his chest, pulling slightly at the pale ginger hairs with his teeth. "John," Sherlock sighed, "you are magnificent - _ah_!" He gasped as John wrapped his hand around his erection and gave a firm tug. He swirled his thumb over the head, spreading Sherlock's pre-cum along his shaft. John couldn't help the grin that spread over his face as he reduced Sherlock Holmes to a moaning, gasping, knot of arousal. All for John.

 

"Turn around," John said, giving Sherlock one last squeeze and drawing out another huff of arousal.

 

Sweeping his hand behind himself in quite the dramatic fashion, Sherlock knocked the microscope and his precious soil samples aside. In no time, he was on his feet, his hands planted on the smooth, metal surface. He spread his legs seemingly without thought and John felt an intense surge of power at his eagerness.

 

Starting to undo his belt, John asked, "What can I -"

 

"Sink," Sherlock nodded quickly toward the wash station by the door. Immediately, John spotted a bottle of hand lotion - a necessity when one washed their hands as often as doctors and scientists - and grabbed it up. Dropping the lotion onto the table next to Sherlock, John whipped his belt free from its loops and started on his fly.

 

"Finger yourself," he breathed headily and his mouth went dry as Sherlock moved at once. He pumped a sizeable dollop into his palm, reached behind himself, and smeared it sloppily between his spread cheeks. John's breathing was coming in deep puffs through his nose as he watched Sherlock slide two long fingers into his hole and scissor them open.

 

"Jesus, Sherlock," John slurred as he swiftly shucked his jumper. He pressed his trousers down around his thighs and took a handful of lotion for himself. Wrapping a hand around his erection, John's head lolled back at the sensation, the anticipation. He forced his gaze back to Sherlock and choked out a grunt when he saw that he had added a third finger.

 

Sherlock was contorted in the most erotic pose John might ever have seen: his legs were spread, his left hand braced against the edge of the table, his back curved almost impossibly far back and his beautiful arse lifted for easier access. John licked his lips as he spread lotion over his erection and committed the image before him to memory.

 

He placed one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and, desperate for John's touch, Sherlock withdrew his fingers and gripped John's hip painfully tight. Without any further preamble, John pressed his cock slowly into Sherlock's plump arse and felt an intense shiver at the rich groan Sherlock let out.

 

He was too loud, so John clapped his free hand over Sherlock's mouth, stifling his eager cries. "Sshh," John hissed into his ear, "someone will hear you." Sherlock's lips fell open at the thought and he greedily sucked John's fingers into his mouth. John delved his fingers deeper as he took his first thrust, hard and deep, and had to bite down on Sherlock's shoulder to silence his own shouts of pleasure.

 

 _God, this man!_ Surely, this would be the death of him. Eventually. But not today. John pounded unforgivingly into Sherlock's arse, both of them panting and sweating and grunting. His right arm wrapped around the crown of Sherlock's head, pulling him dangerously far back as his fingers digging into his hair. John's balls tightened, his toes curled in his shoes, and his muscles tensed as his orgasm drove through him. " _F-fuck_!" he choked out, then buried his teeth in Sherlock's shirt, ripping through the crisp linen.

 

Sherlock wasn't far behind, having grasped his own cock in a desperate grip. His back arched upward, dislodging John's arms, and his free hand slid across the table until his head was pressed against the cool metal. He came hard, another shout escaping his throat, and John dropped his hands to Sherlock's hips as they rode out their orgasms together.

 

After a moment, John seemed to come to without having actually passed out to begin with. The hem of Sherlock's open shirt was tickling his thighs. He patted Sherlock's bum gently as he pulled out, their breathing finally beginning to even out.

 

Standing with a slight grimace, Sherlock redressed and ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing out his appearance. He licked his lips, swallowed slowly, and blew out a breath through pursed lips. The Detective was back.

 

John grinned crookedly at his husband, so cool and collected, as he redid his own trousers and grabbed his jumper from the floor. "Sorry about your experiment," John said. "And your shirt."

 

Sherlock righted the stool - when had it fallen over? - and started tidying up his workspace. "No you're not."

 

"No, I'm not."

 

Sherlock stifled a grin of his own. "You should come to the lab more often."

 

John's phone _ding_ -ed and he fished it from the pocket of his jacket, which was hanging by the door. "I agree. Whole-heartedly." He glanced down and read the text from Molly.

 

_Be sure to sanitise the table when you boys are done. XX_

 

 

[Bonus:]

 

Later that night, Rosie all tucked in and Sherlock resting with his head on John's lap where they lay on the sofa, John passed a hand over that beautiful mass of curls and said, "You know, you really are quite the romantic."

 

"Hmm?" He was nearing sleep. That was good.

 

"To like that song so much," John continued, "because it reminds you of us. It's sweet."

 

Sherlock sighed a sleepy sigh and, eyes still closed, replied, "I told you, John. It is about us - it doesn't merely 'remind' me. I texted her to ask her how she knew so much about it… about how I feel about you."

 

John started to smiled, but Sherlock's words sank in and he furrowed his eyebrows. "I'm sorry - you _texted Ellie Goulding_?" The detective in his lap grunted a little sound of affirmation, completely nonplused. "How did you get her number?"

 

"Easy." That wasn't really an answer, but it was likely all John was going to get at the moment.

 

"What did she say?"

 

"That she's been a fan for years, didn't believe I was dead, was thrilled when we got together, that sort of thing." Sherlock turned onto his side so that he was murmuring against John's abdomen, eyes closed, ready for sleep. "Apparently there are people all over who are very invested in our relationship."

 

"You… amaze me," John whispered.

 

"I know." Then he was asleep.


	7. (What a) Wonderful World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol and Sam Cooke.

John was drunk.

 

He had been out with Greg and Mike, watching the match at a pub they liked in Soho and eating an obscene number of chips. While he had not intended to leave as thoroughly pissed as he was, it seemed that his tolerance to strong stout had been greatly weakened since his uni days. Domestic life was perfectly amazing, but a rotation of riotous student do's, it was not. Except for that case a few months back that had earned them the respect of the current medical students' social club and had resulted in John and Sherlock both waking up on a Sunday morning crammed into a pub booth somewhere in St. Alban's after a lock-in wearing nothing but stethoscopes and each other's coats.

 

Anyway, it now took only half of what it used to take to get John completely plastered. And while on this particular evening, he had not gotten so inebriated that he could not get into a cab, he was still left swaying pleasantly and blinking slowly as Sherlock tried to catch him up on the details of a case.

 

"… that's when I determined that the substance was, in fact, the powdered beak of a cock."

 

John tried not to laugh. Truly. But he was unsuccessful. An undignified giggle bubbled up from his throat, causing Sherlock's eyebrows to furrow.

 

"Really, John -"

 

"Know a lot about cocks, d'you?" John slurred around another chuckle. Sherlock crossed his arms and his pouty mouth curved into a very serious frown. "Alright, alright," John waved his hands apologetically, "tell me about the - pft \- the cock, why don't you?"

 

"I don't think I will," said Sherlock pompously. He spun around and made toward the kitchen, no doubt intent on making an angry cup of tea.

 

"Cocktease." Another bubbling laugh fell from his lips, but Sherlock waved it off as he spun around the cabinets. Clink. Clank. Callously, he dropped a mug onto the counter and poured hot water over the bag - ooh, he was angry if he was going with the bag instead of taking the time to do the leaves. John sidled up behind him where he stood facing the cabinets and wrapped his arms around his husband, leaning drunkenly against his back. He was warm and pleasantly firm beneath John's cheek. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Really. Tell me about the case."

 

Some of the tension left Sherlock's shoulders as John hugged him tight. "Tomorrow, perhaps. You won't remember anything if I tell you now."

 

John smiled, his eyes drooping shut as he breathed in Sherlock's cologne. "Probably not." He took another deep breath. Versace Pour Homme - it smelled a little bit like Earl Grey tea - Sherlock's favourite. It also always managed to send a little shiver down John's spine.

 

Sherlock turned in John's embrace and he looked down with a little less ire than before. "Did you enjoy your night out with Lestrade and Stamford?"

 

"Mmm… I did," John mumbled. Then, he laughed when something floated back to the front of his mind. "Some girl convinced Greg to dance with her - Sam Cooke came over the radio - and he was so pissed he tried to give her a twirl and threw her right into the bar!" John devolved into a fit of giggles, bouncing against Sherlock's chest with the force of it.

 

"Who's Sam Cooke?"

 

"Ugh - Sherlock!" John was disgusted. Outright affronted. He rolled his eyes and pulled his phone from his pocket with some difficulty, it seeming to have become very attached to the lining. "How can you be so smart and so dumb all at once?"

 

"Pardon me?" Sherlock's eyebrow arched.

 

"Sam Cooke! You must know him - his music, I mean." Finally managing to find his music app, John pulled up an old favourite. "He's so good."

 

"Don't know much about history. Don't know much biology. Don't know much about a science book. Don't know much about the French I took."

 

"Doesn't seem to know much about anything, does he?," Sherlock muttered, but John shushed him with a finger to the lips.

 

"But I do know that I love you. And I know that if you love me, too, what a wonderful world this would be."

 

Sherlock hmm-ed and John smiled to see his mercurial grey eyes soften as they listened. "That is rather sweet."

 

"You big softie." Sherlock sipped his tea with a very proper expression on his angular face.

 

"How dare you?" the detective accused with absolutely no more annoyance in his voice. John grinned and took hold of the steaming mug in Sherlock's hand. Placing the cup on the table behind him, John took up Sherlock's warm hand in his own and stood up straight. He began to move his feet ever-so-slightly, forcing Sherlock to sway with him in the kitchen. "What are you doing?"

 

"Dancing, what does it look like?"

 

"It looks like you're attempting to very gently press some grapes into wine."

 

"Fuck off." But John did not leave Sherlock to fuck off. Instead, he pulled Sherlock firmer against his chest, away from the counter, and took a larger step backward. The song had a good, bouncy rhythm - easy to dance to if, like John, you didn’t actually know how to dance.

 

"Oh, for-" Sherlock bit off an oath of frustration and suddenly changed their grip. He took up John's right hand and put his other arm around the doctor's waist and took the lead. This caused John to giggle again as Sherlock began to dance John toward the sitting room where there was more space.

 

"What's this we're doing?" John asked, his head feeling pleasantly swimmy again as Sherlock led him in the steps. Back with the right, back with the left, step to the right, together.

 

"Foxtrot," Sherlock replied. He was trying not to look down at John, but the smaller man could see that his mouth had softened with a repressed smile.

 

“You’re quite the good dancer, you know?” John said after a quiet moment.

 

“You’re not.” Despite his words, Sherlock’s tone was soft and John smiled.

 

“Oh, but that’s why I have you,” he replied in an exaggerated sing-song voice. Sherlock pfft-rd.

 

“You’re drunk.”

 

“You’re just getting that now?”

 

"I got it the moment you put your keys in the door downstairs."

 

"Don't be such a prig, love." John leaned up and kissed Sherlock firmly, his mouth just a little off-center. The song changed, but John couldn't be arsed to keep up with what was playing now - Sherlock was warm and sturdy and he smelled so good. John replaced his lips, landing more squarely this time, and took a firm grip of Sherlock's lapels.

 

He took a step forward and now Sherlock was following his lead. Those long legs bumped up against the sofa before quickly folding and placing the detective on the cushions. John clambered into his lap and pressed Sherlock backward until he was lying where he so often lay in thought. Thinking did not come into play as John's hips came into contact with Sherlock's thigh. There were no thoughts in John's mind as his cock stiffened pleasantly and their tongues began to swirl around one another. His mind was blank of everything except Sherlock as he slowly ground his hips down, pressing firmly against Sherlock's muscled leg, and moaned into his open mouth.

 

"John…" Sherlock breathed against his lips, but John undulated his hips again, this time managing to press the bulges of their cocks together. "Fuck!"

 

There was a thought.

 

John mm-ed in agreement, his hands flying down to Sherlock's waistband. But Sherlock stopped him, gripping his wrists firmly.

 

"No, John, stop," he murmured, pulling his head to the side to quell his husband's kissing. John would not be put off so easily - he licked up the side of Sherlock's neck and elicited a positively sinful sound. "John." A moan. Then, "John." An insistence.

 

"What is it?" John stilled his grinding hips and reaching fingers, but continued nuzzling Sherlock's neck in a way they both liked.

 

"You're drunk."

 

"I know." Obviously. What did that matter?

 

"Stop, John. Now." Sherlock finally managed to get a good angle beneath John's body and flipped him onto his back against the other arm of the sofa. Quickly, he stood and took a steadying breath. He looked quite the picture, John thought slowly, his mind still muddled. His shirt was untucked, his cheeks flushed, a few gentle red marks blossoming on his neck, and the most beautiful bulge John had ever seen in a pair of trousers.

 

"Wassamatter?" John hadn't intended to slur quite so badly that time. But his arousal was intensifying the mottling of his intoxicated tongue and it was the most pleasant floating feeling. Orgasm would be better, though. Why was Sherlock upset?

 

"You know I don't like to…" he trailed off and struggled to maintain eye-contact. That was unusual.

 

Then John remembered.

 

Sherlock didn't like to have sex when only one of them was drunk. If they were both pissed, sure, no problem. They'd fumble around each other for hours before finally managing to get off and go to sleep and it was always a perfect, hazy, mess of a romp. But if only one of them was impaired (usually John, as Sherlock honestly didn't drink very often), Sherlock absolutely would not consent to sex.

 

He had been taken advantage of before. When he was strung out, in a dingy drug house or an alley somewhere. Or even, as he had confided to John, once when he was out in public. In broad daylight, high but functioning, and with someone he had trusted. Someone who had been all too sober to do such a thing to Sherlock. John's Sherlock.

 

His mind cleared with a sudden whoosh and John took a sharp breath through his nose. Sherlock's expression calmed as he recognised the apology on John's face. "Sherlock, I - I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to -"

 

"I know," Sherlock said, putting up a hand to quiet him. John reached out and took it before wrapping the fingers of his other hand around the back of Sherlock's neck. He brought their foreheads together and he waited until he felt Sherlock's brow un-furrow against his own.

 

"C'mon," John finally murmured. "Let's go to bed. You can tell me about the case and I promise not to fall asleep in the middle this time." Sherlock hmm-ed a quiet laugh.

 

"Sounds good."


	8. When My Little Girl is Smiling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. Just because.

A soft  _ thump _ drew Sherlock from his sleep.  _ Footsteps. John’s. Upstairs in Rosie’s room _ . He sighed and thought about going back to sleep, but the nagging thought that something might be wrong drew him from under the warm comfort of his duvet. There were no sounds of panic from upstairs, but John had been up there longer than usual. So Sherlock slid from the bed with the blanket wrapped around him and trod sleepily toward the staircase.

 

His shuffling footsteps were nearly silent as he slowly climbed the stairs. John was moving about in Rosie’s room with an odd, quiet rhythm and Sherlock could see that he was holding her in his arms. Sherlock leaned against the door frame and watched through drooping lids as John bounced her gently back and forth in front of her crib.

 

“ _ When my little girl is smiling _ ,” he was singing, barely more than a whisper, “ _ there’s nothing more I can say. I see those big brown eyes and then I realize that girl is gonna get her way.” _

 

A pleasant sigh escaped Sherlock’s nose as he watched them, swaying and bouncing in the moonlit bedroom. He rested his head against the wooden trim and listened. John wasn’t an excellent singer, but Sherlock did love to listen to him.

 

“ _ When my little girl is smiling, I can’t stay mad at her for long. Why would I want to fight when I can hold her tight? I just don’t care who’s right or wrong. _ ”

 

Rosie’s plump little fist rubbed at her eye, pushing away a tear, before she found a firm grip in the fabric of John’s old cotton tee shirt.  _ Bad dream _ , Sherlock concluded. How comforting the feeling of John’s arms could be - Sherlock knew from experience. He, too, had bad dreams that had been expertly soothed by John’s warmth, his earthy smell, and the soft fabric of that tee shirt against Sherlock’s cheek. Of course, occasionally he had to ease John’s bad dreams, too, but he never felt as if he were as comforting a presence as John.

 

“ _ When my little girl is smiling, it’s the greatest thrill there can be. She gets her way, it’s true. But I know I won’t be blue as long as she just smiles for me.” _ She was asleep now, but John was always compelled to finish a song once he had started singing. He spun slowly, denoting the musical interlude with soft little  _ ba ba-bum _ ’s, and finally noticed Sherlock leaning in the doorway. He smiled and Sherlock nearly melted. “ _ For me _ .”

 

John bounced Rosie back toward her bed, gently laid her down, and pulled her blanket up around her. With a final, gentle touch to her forehead, John turned and met Sherlock at the door with a soft kiss on the lips. Comfortable. Home. Perfect.

 

“What are you doing up?” John whispered, his warm hand travelling up Sherlock’s bare arm in a gentle caress.

 

“I heard you moving around and wanted to be sure Rosie was alright.” Sherlock’s head fell forward until his face was buried in John’s neck. Somehow, he smelled of sleep and Sherlock took a long, deep breath.

 

“C’mon,” John murmured, his hands running along Sherlock’s back. “Let’s get you back to bed.” He turned Sherlock in his embrace and gently urged him back down the stairs. 

 

“I liked that song,” Sherlock said, sleep creeping back into his consciousness. “I think Rosie does, too.”

 

“I’ve always enjoyed it.” They reached their bedroom and John led Sherlock back onto his side of the bed. Sherlock’s eyes were closed again and he was breathing slowly.

 

As he fell against his pillows, Sherlock mumbled, “You’re not a good singer.”

 

John emitted a little chuckle as he climbed over Sherlock’s prone form and pulled the duvet from his husband’s grip. “But you liked it anyway?”

 

“I like you.”

 

“I like you, too.” Both of them fully tucked under the heavy blanket, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and kissed the back of his neck. Content and wrapped in each other’s affection, they drifted off to sleep.


	9. Stayin' Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a surprise gift from Sherlock.

John had rather taken to walks. Whenever the weather was amenable enough, he would go just a little out of his way to the Criterion to get an overpriced cuppa before making the trek back home. It was a good walk ‒ not too long to tire him, but long enough to get him some much-needed exercise and a sweet respite from the daily burdens of a four-year-old and a madcap genius. Which was how he found himself ambling pleasantly down Bond Street in early July, smiling placidly at a group of tourists outside Selfridge’s.

 

He was just thinking that he ought to pop in and get Rosie a new swimsuit before their holiday to Brighton when his phone buzzed in his pocket. 

 

_ Did you find it? -SH _

 

John crinkled his eyebrows and texted back. 

 

_ Find what? _

 

_ In your bag. -SH _

 

Intrigued, John slipped his mobile into his jeans pocket and opened the top of his work satchel. Stashed at the bottom of his stack of patient files and his basic medical kit (as first a Boy Scout and later a soldier, John was perpetually prepared), was a small paper gift bag. It was plain brown with no decorative paper or ribbon, but it did have a tag. John flipped open the little label and read:

 

_ It is your birthday. -SH _

 

He paused ‒ it  _ was _ his birthday. How had he managed to forget that, of all things? They  _ had _ been incredibly busy lately; Sherlock had been taking on more private clients to pay for Rosie’s daycare and one of John’s co-workers had just taken off for maternity leave. They had been going almost non-stop for about a month and it appeared that the anniversary of his own birth had simply slipped his mind.

 

But not Sherlock’s. His heart warmed. Sherlock was rarely outright sentimental, but occasionally he did or said something that was surprisingly thoughtful. He treated these moments as a matter of course: he wasn’t being gushy to tell John he loved him, he was stating a simple fact. Of course, that often led to awkward or embarrassing encounters, as Sherlock also had no qualms about stating in a perfectly casual volume that John had “fucked me nearly through the mattress last night” while they were on line at Tesco’s. 

 

John reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of high-quality headphones. They were a stylish matte white and had lots of cushy padding on the ear-cups. John hated those annoying little earbuds millennials were always using ‒ they were constantly falling out and when they  _ did _ stay in, they hurt. And they had a terrible sound quality. No ‒ as far as headphones went, over-ear was the only way.

 

It was a surprisingly thoughtful gift. John had never bothered to buy himself a pair of headphones, preferring to play his records whenever possible and occasionally just using the speaker on his mobile. But these would be perfect for his walks home, the bus, avoiding people when he was trying to read in a coffee shop… John smiled ‒ these opened up a whole new world of socially-acceptable introversion. He plugged them into the bottom of his mobile and pulled up a playlist of Motown and Disco that was perfect for a happy jaunt home.

 

He was waiting to cross over Wigmore Street when a voice in his ear nearly scared the shit right out of him. “You found them, then.”

 

“ _ Jee-sus Christ _ !” John felt his hands tighten into fists, but he swiftly pushed his panic aside when he realised the voice belonged to Sherlock. Instead of hitting the man in front of him, as instinct dictated, John pulled his new headphones from his ears and hung them around his neck. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

 

“Joining you on your walk home,” Sherlock said with a little shrug.

 

His hand still over his rapidly-beating heart, John asked, “What are you doing out here this time of day? I thought you were in Soho with your client?”

 

“Finished early. I knew you’d be heading home this way, so I stopped in at Selfridge’s to get Rosie a new swimsuit before we go to Brighton.” He held up a shopping bag as evidence and John grinned at him as they crossed the road. “She’s grown out of the old one and I never cared for that ridiculous giraffe on the front. Giraffes don’t swim ‒ it’s absurd.”

 

“Giraffes don’t swim?”

 

“Nope.” He popped the “p” in that casually smug way he often did and John  _ hmm _ -ed. He learned something new literally every day with Sherlock. “Do you like them?”

 

“Giraffes?”

 

Sherlock clicked his tongue and John could  _ hear _ him roll his eyes. “No ‒ your headphones, John. Do you like them?”

 

“Very much.” John couldn’t help the goofy grin that slid over his face at Sherlock’s uncertainty. He’d gotten John a perfect gift and was still so unsure about how John would react. It was terribly endearing. “They’re perfect, Sherlock. And they sound wonderful.”

 

“Good. I’m glad.” He gave John a quick, lopsided grin as they paused at another crosswalk. “You can keep your  _ popular music _ to yourself.”

 

“Don’t be a bastard, you were being sweet,” John chided easily. Sherlock pursed his lips, but did not retort.

 

“What are you listening to now?” John was certain he didn’t actually care, but he was trying. So John pulled one side of his new headphones up to his ear. It was a good song ‒  _ great song _ . But he was pretty sure he could anticipate how Sherlock would react. With a sly grin, he unplugged the cord from his mobile and turned up the volume.

 

_ “Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk I'm a woman's man, no time to talk. Music loud and women warm, I've been kicked around since I was born ‒” _

 

“Nope!” Sherlock’s eyebrows flew nearly into his unruly curls as he pushed John’s mobile away as if it were attacking him. John cackled and closed his music app. “Never again, John.”

 

John just continued laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to call this the end of this little work for now. I'm sure that as time goes on, I'll think of more songs and more chapters (and, of course, I'm always open to suggestions). Hope you all liked it!


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